Boundaries
by sapereaude13
Summary: Fortune favors not the men who cross paths with the Queen of Dalmasca. Postgame. Adult situations, language and violence. BalthierAshe.


The cheers of her people have always brought her joy, but as flower petals float through the dry, dusty air of the narrow Nalbina streets, Ashe wishes for silence. At her side, Lord Somal is in his characteristic state of placid contentment as he waves politely to the mass of bodies that line the passageways. A little girl breaks away from the line before Ashe's bodyguards can stop her, and the Queen halts.

The child holds up a bouquet of Galbana lilies, her face filthy and her mouth missing her two front teeth as she smiles widely. "Congratulations, Your Majesty!" the girl cheers.

Ashe nods and accepts the flowers. "Thank you very much." She wants to throw the flowers down and stomp on them, to ignore the congratulations.

Somal pats the girl on the head. "Faram." The girl's mother then snatches her away, face reddened in embarrassment, and Ashe and her party continue their procession. In three weeks, she and Maurit Somal, a Bhujerban noble, will be wed in Rabanastre. Somal is a wealthy landowner in Dorstonis with magicite mines on his property – it will be a healthy source of additional needed income in Dalmasca, and a Bhujerban match has pleased her people. It pleases her far less, but Somal is quiet and unassuming. He smokes a long pipe, he occasionally gambles, and he fancies himself a playwright in his spare time. On paper and in the Nalbina streets, it is a fine choice for a consort.

In her heart, she feels lost.

The procession continues through the marketplace, the spices and exotic fruits perfuming the air whilst the bartering and haggling continues despite her arrival, and Ashe likes it that way. Another child manages to steal away from his parents, tugging on her skirts with his dirty hands.

"Away from the Queen, you!" shout her guards, and Somal steps in front of her and tries to push the boy back.

"Let him come," she protests. She will not be afraid of the children of her own country. Her entourage pauses again, and she kneels down to look the boy in the face. His hair is wild and his eyes wilder still. His chubby hand grasps hers and he bends down to press a kiss to it, and she feels the little boy slip a small piece of paper between her fingers.

"Bless you, Your Majesty," he whispers reverently, and before she can stop him, the boy has scampered off and is lost behind the market stalls. Ashe rises to her feet once more, hiding the slip of paper in her fist.

Somal looks at her curiously. "How very interesting. Your people ought to show you more respect. You need some boundaries between you and them, Ashelia," he notes with a slight quirk of his lips.

She knows immediately who has put the boy up to such a thing. Ashe continues on ahead, opening the paper and seeing his scrawl. "Temple ahead. Feign illness." Somal is once again by her side, and she lets the paper slip through her fingers and to the ground before he can see it. To let it be trampled by her courtiers and her guards and the whole of Nalbina. He cannot expect her to sneak away now.

But she wants to, she dearly wants to. Somal is a dullard and a fool, and she is letting herself be trapped with him because she loves Dalmasca. Rarely does she get to love herself. Emerging from the bazaars, she spies the temple, a shrine to Kiltia with whitewashed stone columns speckled with dirt and sand. Its colorful minarets of green, red and blue soar into the skies, and she knows he is there, waiting for her.

It is very hot in Nalbina today, and she brings a hand to her forehead and stumbles, leaning on Somal for support. The entourage halts for a third time, and she steadies herself. "Maurit, I would rest for a while. It is this blasted heat," she lies while one of her ladies begins to fan her. Ashe grew up in the desert – it never bothers her, and they should all know that, shouldn't they? Her nervousness after receiving his note is enough to make her skin clammy and convincing. "I will pray in the temple, is that alright?"

Her guards move to follow as she pulls away from Somal, giving him no choice in the matter. Her mouth feels stuffed with cotton and her hands shake as she faces the bodyguards and the rest of her party. "I would pray in peace, please." The guards begrudgingly stop outside of the temple doors, Somal's eyes full of concern as she pushes open the heavy door.

Inside, the temple is dark and there is no service going on at the moment. The aisles are deserted, and she wonders if he's stooped so low as to bribe the kiltias and parishioners to abandon the building for their meeting. Seeing no other soul as she walks to the altar, she knows that he has done so. How much gil has he thrown away for one last chance to try talking her out of what they both know she cannot postpone or cancel?

The altar's candles are still burning, and the scrolls are still unraveled where the acolytes must have been chanting and reciting just minutes earlier. There is a spot on the floor where colored light from a stained glass window pools. She kneels there and stares around her. Never being one for much religion, the austere walls and the smell of incense mean little to her, but the window draws her eye. A woman and a man stand together in the colored glass, Raithwall and his queen, their hands raised to the heavens in thanks while their descendant stares up wondering how it had all come to this.

A warm hand with cool metal rings adorning it brushes against the nape of her neck, and she closes her eyes. "I knew you would come."

Ashe rises from the floor but will not look behind her, instead keeping her eyes on Raithwall and his wife – joined together to start a new dynasty, one that she must continue. "You bribed people of faith to draw me here?" she inquires softly, feeling his breath against her skin.

His fingers glide smoothly up and down her arms, so delicately that she wants to cry out. His lips press against her neck. "Let's avoid the judgment of the Dynast King. I'd rather not incur his wrath today."

He begins to tug her away from the altar, pulling her shuffling feet along to an antechamber away from the main hall of the temple. In one swift motion he has her seated on a table – collection plates and scattered gil pieces all around her. He is kissing her then, her hands running through his short hair and his fingers running over her shoulders, sliding down the straps of her thin gown.

She's missed him. She will miss him, and she will miss this. "Balthier, stop," she whispers, pushing him away from her.

He runs his hand through his hair in frustration and sighs. He's got a few scattered papers on the table and now he is shoving them into her hands. "Treasury statements. First hand accounts. Deeds of sale."

"Balthier, don't do this," she protests softly, refusing to look at them. "You are a master forger, you cannot expect me to believe…"

His eyes are dangerous. "This is not jealousy. This is the truth." He grabs her hands roughly and makes her raise the papers to her eye level. "Read them, damn you."

This hurts her, and her stomach twists and knots at the lengths he's prepared to go to in order to keep her. "We have all of these records at the palace."

His hand is on her thigh then, possessive and desperate. "Those are the bloody forgeries, Ashe. Why won't you look at them?" He rips them out of her grasp and begins to read them aloud to her. "Profit from magicite mine thirteen for last year – no profit, but a loss of 17,000 gil." He shuffles the papers about. "Profit from magicite mine six, a statement from just last week – no profit, a loss of…"

She lets out a low growl and shoves the rest of the papers onto the floor angrily. "Stop!" Her fists find his chest, and she hits him. He's been trying to discredit Somal for months now. "Stop it, Balthier. Enough."

He grips her chin and demands she look in his eyes. "It's right in front of you, and you won't see it." She doesn't know if he refers to Somal's alleged treachery – or his own feelings for her. His hand is on her leg again, hastily shoving her dress up. "What more can I do to convince you?"

She pulls him against her, and her anger and lust seem to fuse together. Ashe bites down on his lip until she tastes blood, squeezing his biceps through his shirt sleeves. Hands fumble for trouser buttons, and her cheeks are stained with tears – she doesn't know if they are hers or his. His name is on her tongue as he enters her, his movements erratic and almost clumsy in his desperation to be inside her and to claim her for his own one last time.

She is so angry – with him for sinking so low, with herself for always giving in to him. She wishes she could stop loving him, wishes she could switch off the way he makes her feel, the way he whispers her name, the way it feels to be joined with him. She is gripping the back of his shirt so tightly that she wonders if it will tear the strong fabric apart at the seams. He is begging her to believe him as he pulls her leg around his back and continues. It hurts, but she welcomes the ache, knowing it is the last time.

"Ashe, please believe me," he moans, and she cries out in both pleasure and pain. It has never been like this before – so full of anger and desperation. But she wants him to say it. Maybe then she would believe him – but he has never said it to her.

She whispers in his ear shakily, feeling as though she is about to burst from the feeling between her legs that is radiating out to the tips of her toes. "Tell me. Tell me you love me, and I'll believe you." But he is lost, crying her name and rocking against her, his hands so tight that she'll have the imprint of his fingers on her flesh for days. She can't concentrate – he's making her come, and she clings desperately to him, begging him to love her with each heaving breath. His name echoes off of the temple walls as it bursts from her, and he can only collapse against her one final time with a sorrowful growl from deep inside him.

They stay that way for several moments, still joined, as her limbs shake and her lips tremble. He pulls her palm to his lips, kissing it slowly. "Answer something for me," he requests quietly, his voice still low and breathy.

"What?"

"If you die without an heir…"

"Balthier, don't…"

He kisses her silent and leans his forehead against hers. "If you die without an heir, does he profit?"

She shakes her head in disbelief and pushes him away from her. "How can you ask that?"

He buttons his trousers and straightens his clothes. "It's just a question."

Ashe actually hasn't thought of that. She has no designated successor since she is twenty-two, healthy and about to be married. "I don't know," she replies quietly.

Balthier picks up the scattered papers from the floor and hands them to her again, pushing hair away from her face where sweat has plastered it there from their exertions. "Perhaps you ought to think about it. Humble suggestion." Balthier is thoroughly convinced that Somal is a shady character, but he is so dreadfully boring that Ashe can't imagine such a thing being possible. Somal talks only of his latest play or his gardens on his estates in Bhujerba. All of the statements at the palace speak of rich magicite veins and a rather solitary existence.

She slides off of the table and adjusts her dress. Her skin feels hot, and her legs are terribly sore. "Will you come?" she asks as she moves to leave the antechamber. "To the banquet?"

His frown is painful to see. "I don't know. Fran seems to think I should."

"I hope you will consider it." She does not want to leave him first, and her voice catches. "I'll be in the sanctuary." And with that, she turns away from him, knowing she will probably never look upon him again. He doesn't follow as she stands before the stained glass window again, begging Raithwall for some measure of wisdom.

Somal is beside her some time later. "Are you recovered? Perhaps we ought to return to the capital?"

Her face is calm, no sign of what she has lost evident on her features as she rises to her feet. "Yes, let's be off." Somal's eyes are kind and trusting as he escorts her from the temple, and it breaks her once more to think of Balthier's lies.

-----

The banquet is a joyous affair. After the ceremony earlier in the day, Ashe's closest friends and advisors join her in celebration, and many unfamiliar faces represent Somal's business partners and colleagues from Bhujerba. She dreads the hours to come, knowing that her duty to Dalmasca must be carried out this night with the man seated beside her.

The wine isn't doing enough, and she's barely touched her food. Vaan and Penelo are eagerly relating stories of treasure hunts while Fran sits beside them with a concerned expression. The Viera has not met her eyes yet this night, and Ashe knows why.

There is a stirring at the door of the banquet hall, a furious shuffling of feet and her guards are trying to prevent someone from entering. Ashe sees Balthier leaning against the doorframe, and his partner is out of her seat in seconds. Somal is speaking to her about some mining deal or another, but Ashe only has eyes for the scene at the door.

Fran is gripping her partner's shoulder, trying to encourage him to leave, but he shakes her off and approaches the banquet table. He's bought an elaborate suit coat and new trousers for the occasion, and Ashe knows the fabric is richer and more expensive than Maurit's attire. Fran follows Balthier and sits beside him, her ruby eyes darting between her partner and Ashe.

Ashe reaches for her wine glass and drinks, moving to pay attention to a story Penelo is recounting. But Balthier's voice, seemingly slurred from drink, rings out. "So Lord Somal, how's the old magicite business?"

Surely he isn't so stupid? Penelo quiets down and prods her food around, the story remaining unfinished, and Ashe tries to keep her face calm and undisturbed.

For his part, Somal doesn't take the bait. "Up and down, sir. Might you be the sky pirate friend of my wife's, the one who traveled with her?" Balthier's face is amused, but he says nothing. Somal smiles politely. "Dalmasca owes you and Fran here a great debt."

"Speaking of debts…"

"Balthier," Ashe interrupts then, gritting her teeth. "May I have a word with you?"

Fran gives her a warning look, and even Somal beside her appears curious. Her new husband waves his hand to encourage her to calm down. "It's a fair question." Maurit's eyes are sharper than she's ever noticed them. "As I've said before, Ashelia, your subjects have a tendency to disrespect your boundaries. And now I sit in the same boat as you."

Ashe has never seen Somal this way before, his fingers drumming on the table while Balthier is still smarting from being referred to as one of her "subjects." The sky pirate calls for a glass of wine for himself. "I have friends in Bhujerba, Lord Somal. Mining friends, actually. Recently out of work."

Somal's eyebrow quirks slightly, and Ashe feels her heart racing. Maurit has said nothing of this, and all his papers verify the profitability of his various operations…why is Balthier doing this? Somal shakes his head. "A few setbacks in recent weeks. Issues with the paling, that's all. Come now, let's talk of something else."

Ashe feels lightheaded at this admission. The mines are profitable. She read the statements again and again for three solid weeks after Balthier's last desperate act. Even her ministers were confused by her obsessive interest in Maurit's accounts.

Somal's next words to Balthier are like ice. "Do you enjoy plundering from the dead, my friend?"

She rises from the table, her chair scraping against the tiles sharply. "I am feeling a bit tired, I am very sorry. Thank you all for being here with us today."

Balthier looks very pleased with himself, and she leaves the table. Her guests are abuzz in moments, their hushed voices hurting her ears as she walks off. An intimate knowledge of her palace allows Balthier to find her in her study minutes later.

"You cannot be here. It is my wedding night," she whispers harshly as he pokes his head out from the secret panel beside her bookcase.

He kneels before her and takes her hand, and she can smell the liquor on his breath. "He lies. He is lying about it all."

She runs a hand over his head and sighs. "Perhaps that is true."

"And you can just accept that, can you? And if he bankrupts your treasury?" he demands, resting his head upon her lap in his drunken weariness.

"You have to go. Please, let Fran take you back to the aerodrome, Balthier." He clutches her legs like the filthy boy in the bazaar had that day. The day she still could have called it off – the day she could have done a little bit more prying. Issues with the paling in his mines? Maurit had spoken of naught but profits for three weeks and had the statements to back it up.

She strokes his back and his neck, memorizing the exact feel of his skin. She must learn another man's skin soon enough, and surely Somal is wondering where she has hidden herself. "You are drunk, Balthier. If you could see yourself right now, the Balthier I know would be horrified."

He releases her and pulls her to her feet. "He has a mistress."

She allows him to wrap his arms around her. "Then he and I aren't so different."

"I resent the implication that I'm your mistress," he jokes, but his heart isn't in it. Balthier kisses the top of her head. "I am right about him, Ashe."

"You're drunk. You have to go." Again, she walks away first, resigned to what she must do and what she must give up.

-----

The palace hallways are quiet, and she has still not been to bed. Two hours have passed since she left Balthier in her study, and she's been walking in the gardens contemplating the choices she's had to make. It is her wedding night, and the guards seem a bit confused as she drifts through the halls alone in thought. She can't blame them – it is indeed strange.

She is almost to her bedchamber when she hears it. Who would dare make love in her own rooms? The usual guard is not in his place outside, and she lets herself in. Her sitting room is deserted, and she can hear moans from the chamber beyond. The voices are familiar, too familiar. The door is ajar, and whoever is profaning her room is doing so against the wall just on the other side. The shadows conceal her, and she peers through, feeling the walls vibrate from the vigorous activity just feet away.

It is Somal, the Bhujerban sound in his moans rattling her and clearly identifying him. The girl has on one of her very own gowns, and Ashe inhales sharply. He is consorting with one of her maids in her bedchamber, and the girl is dressed just like her.

The noise increases in volume, and she cannot tear her eyes away. The shock leaves her in place, her hand hovering by the doorknob. She watches her husband move against the girl roughly, and "Ashelia" is on his lips as he does so.

Suddenly his eyes look over and spot her, but she still cannot move. His face – the face of a man who was so mild-mannered and calm, that face is now beaded with sweat and smiling. He looks directly at her as he holds the girl around him. "Call me your pirate," he demands of the girl, his eyes still locked on hers, and Ashe has never felt so terrified in her life.

The oblivious maid moans noisily. "You're my pirate, harder, please!" Somal complies, roughly groping the poor maid until she cries out in ecstasy, and Ashe backs away from that horrifying look in his eyes. That possessive look. She cannot wipe it away, her husband's grip on that girl's thigh, the way he shouted her own name. He's known about Balthier all along.

The activity concludes just inside the other room, and Ashe leans against the wall, unsure of what to do. She's already tugged on the alarm, but no one has come yet. Ashe can hear the girl stepping out of the dress, the sound of the fabric hitting the floor making her shake. She listens as Somal kisses the girl and sends her away through the secret exit in her bedchamber that Balthier has always used. Ashe knows there are no weapons concealed in her sitting room – they are all in her bedchamber.

The door between her chamber and the sitting room is flung open, and Somal is there clad only in his trousers, licking the taste of that other girl from his fingers. "Maurit, what is the meaning of this?" she asks calmly, although she is scanning the room for something to strike him with. The look in his eyes when he was with the other girl has helped her to realize that it is no mere adultery. He wanted to be found. She remembers Balthier's words from just weeks earlier.

"_If you die without an heir, does he profit?"_

He steps toward her, a demented grin on the face that was always so dull, so lifeless. "You thought to cuckold me?"

She stands behind one of her couches, placing some distance between herself and the man she thought she understood well enough. "Maurit, I've called for the guard."

"Oh?" he inquires with a laugh, walking calmly to the cord. "Dreadful shame I've cut the connection. And you'll notice it was a might quiet in the halls on your way back. Wedding night and all – I asked for a bit of privacy, and your idiot guards obeyed."

"I will scream."

"Go ahead, I haven't gotten to hear it yet. You save that for the pirate you're always _fucking_." She grips the couch and concentrates on her breathing. "You think me harmless, right? Only thought of the money I could bring to your coffers?" He advances until he is facing her where he stands at the other end of the couch. He leans forward, placing his hands over hers. "Oh Ashelia, you foolish girl."

"Why are you doing this?" She is far from the door. He might catch her before she gets there, and she knows that without a sword or dagger, physical strength will win out, and he is far larger than she.

"Because he's right, he's absolutely right." She knows he is talking about Balthier. "Of course, I've known that he was checking in on all my finances. And yes, I am on the verge of bankruptcy. But here I am, a newlywed with a wealthy wife."

She scowled. "And you think to blackmail me, is that it?"

He moves swiftly around the couch then, and she doesn't know why she isn't calling out. She's allowed herself to wed someone thoroughly wicked, and Balthier had been trying to tell her as much all along, but she wouldn't listen. She only knew her duty and her place.

"Blackmail would be easy if I'd married anyone but you, Ashelia." He grips her face roughly, his thumb and fingers pressing the bones of her cheeks hard. "But you're just a bit too noble for all that."

She refuses to let her fear show, and she tries to calculate the best way to escape. "Then you will murder me in my own chambers on our wedding night? They will know you did it."

Maurit grins, his eyes dark and impenetrable. "Will they truly think that?" He releases his hold on her face only to take the back of his hand to her cheek hard enough to send her reeling. "Or will they think something else? We all saw how much your pirate had to drink tonight…"

"No," she whispers, feeling blood begin to seep from her nose. "You won't convince them."

She ducks away as he tries to kick at her, and he laughs at her dodging. "I will, my dear, I will. When the jilted lover comes to murder the Queen, I am of course too late to stop it." He picks up a vase of flowers from the table and throws it at her, and it misses her head by inches. She screams for the guards that have probably deserted this entire wing of the palace at this demon's command. His hand fists in her hair, and she tries to punch him, scratching desperately with her nails. "Too late to stop your murder, but just in time to kill the man that committed such a grievous act."

Ashe feels as though she is being moved around a game board once more – instead of the Occuria pulling her strings, it is now the man she has wedded. He drags her into the bedchamber, locking the door and pulling her along to the bed that any other married couple would be sharing at present. She feels surprisingly calm as he shoves her onto her knees and forces her face down against the mattress.

He is foolish to have brought her in here. She turns her head to breathe and tries to stick her fingers beneath the mattress for the dagger concealed there. The calm is shattered when she realizes it.

She feels the blade's cool metal against her cheek. "The benefit of sleeping with your maids – all your secret little hiding spots aren't so secret."

Ashe can see the blood from her face staining the bed sheets, and she knows the guards aren't coming for her. She's made terrible choices for Dalmasca for the sake of duty when choices that reflected her own heart would have been the wisest. "Kill me then, you've bested me."

"Kill you now? Before we've even consummated our marriage?" he whispers beside her ear.

She can still feel the dagger against her skin, and if he thinks to rape her, he is mistaken. "I will not submit to you. You'll be so drenched in my blood that they will know you did this, Somal." Her voice is alarmingly light, as if nothing can bother her. Perhaps this is how it really feels before one's life is ripped away. Did her father feel this calm before he was gutted? Did Rasler before the arrow pierced his heart? He tears at her gown anyhow, the ripping barely registering in her ears. All she can do is watch crimson stain her sheets as she continues to feel around beneath the mattress for a dagger that is not there.

Her thoughts drift to her people, of how she has disgraced them. The succession? His hands are squeezing and pinching her, and he lets the dagger drift down her spine as lightly as the brush of a fingertip. Who will succeed her? She is the last of her line, and there will be no stained glass window of her to match Raithwall and his bride. What chaos will ensue? Halim is her closest relative – he will know how to help. Has she done everything she could for Dalmasca? She closes her eyes and weeps for the way she's failed in her most important duty.

"For one who talks often of boundaries, I dare say you are a hypocrite, sir."

She's imagined him here, loathing herself for a rescue scenario. The Dynast-Queen that lived beneath the streets, triumphed over Vayne Solidor and restored her country's freedom? Where is she? The blade is removed from its dangerous tracing of her back, and Somal hauls her up. She holds the tatters of her wedding dress to her chest, even attempting modesty in her final moments.

Ashe sees Balthier leaning against a dresser, his gun aimed at them both since Somal is using her as a shield. It is remarkable what the mind can summon before death. She must still be forced against the mattress, being defiled and murdered. This cannot be truly happening in this way.

Somal holds her own dagger against her throat. "You're not so quick with all you've had to drink this evening, pirate. Shoot my head off all you want – she will die either way."

She feels lightheaded, smiling weakly at Balthier. "I've conjured you from thin air. Called you like an esper."

Balthier's eyes register shock at her words, but he reverts almost immediately to the deadpan stare and mirthful eyes of someone who is always a step ahead. She begins to wonder if he actually is real. "You're right, Somal. I'm not very quick right now." Her husband has the dagger so close that she can feel blood trickling down her throat. Balthier cocks his head to the side. "Why else do you think I brought a friend?"

The blade is gone, and Somal collapses behind her. Ashe feels like she is experiencing life in half time as she sees the crossbow bolt emerging from the back of his skull. Fran's arms are about her shoulders in seconds, leading her away from the sight on her floor and to the other side of her bed. "Ashe, you must sit," the Viera whispers, her long fingernails stroking her hair and her eyes are calm as ever.

Balthier is standing a few paces away. "I'll go alert the guard."

Fran rises and shakes her head. "I will go. They know you were drunk."

There is silence in the room, and Ashe knows that just behind her, Somal is dead. Balthier doesn't make a move to close the distance between them. "Thank you," she whispers.

"Are you hurt?"

"Yes and no."

"Understandable," he replies quietly, finally sitting beside her on the bed. She reaches for his hand, and he squeezes tightly. "Fran and I stayed behind. Just had a bad feeling about this whole business. And when we saw the guards had gone…"

She nods. "You and Fran…I will see that you are not punished for what has happened. My ministers will be quick to jump to conclusions over what happened here."

"When they speak to your maids, I think they will be hasty to see that man's remains scattered in the Estersand," his voice retorts sharply.

His arm comes around her shoulders, and she leans into his embrace in exhaustion and relief. "I truly thought I was imagining you." She grins ruefully. "I was utterly useless…he knew where my dagger was."

Balthier's grip on her tightens. "I love you. I've always loved you." His lips tremble as he presses them to her hair. "I know I can be garrulous by default, but this…I just didn't know how to say it."

Ashe knows how hard the words were for him, and she feels her eyes itch and water. "Fortune favors not the men who cross paths with the Queen of Dalmasca."

He chuckles at that. "Worth the risk, I'd wager."

"I should not have doubted you. You were true to me."

Balthier kisses her cheek gently and rises from the bed. "Always."

They must be apart now, the boundary lines drawn again, as Fran returns with what feels like the entire Dalmascan royal guard as well as Ashe's entire cabinet of ministers. The body is taken out, and doctors prod her while the ministers wring their hands and bemoan their negligence. She realizes how close she came to danger and how difficult the weeks ahead will be. Statements will be made, inquests will be carried out, and of course – wedding presents will be returned, she notes wryly.

But it is all in the future. As her ministers tearfully shake hands with Balthier and Fran and thank them for their swift action, Ashe knows what she must do. Her duty to herself must intertwine with her duty to Dalmasca lest she endanger herself once more. The Queen and the woman must be one. Somal was wrong - the boundary between the two must be erased. She shoves the healer's hands aside, rising from the bed. Let them all see, let them bear witness. Ashe embraces Balthier in front of them all and finally knows relief…and joy.


End file.
